Not Morning Yet
by Mrs Dionysius O'Gall
Summary: "I know you will let them go when it feels right." Short tag to 7x08, the night after episode's end.


Inside the Airstream, it was still dark.

Not morning yet, Teresa thought.

Noticing that she was naked and chilly, she tugged the comforter up a fraction. As she tugged it closer, up to her other arm, which was protectively slung across Patrick's chest, she settled her hand over his heart. Pressing herself closer, she nestled into Patrick's side.

Perfection.

She rubbed her face against the side of his neck, like a child making sure a beloved toy was real. After so many years of yearning, loving and longing, she sometimes still couldn't believe that she was regularly enjoying the experience of lying in bed with the love of her life.

Serious though it was, their disagreement over the Lyden case was not going to derail them in the long-term. Not if she could help it. Not if she could help him.

Unable to get back to sleep, she remembered the outcome of the previous day. Did he really not think she would figure out what he'd done? She'd been mortified that he'd diverted her out of the line of fire, and had been frostily silent during the return trip. Even Cho was looking at her strangely, as if he'd been the culprit.

After they arrived back at FBI Headquarters, Patrick had given a quick, reassuring squeeze to her arm, as if nothing had happened. But she knew, and was furious and quickly retreated to any and all places where he was not present.

It was an exhausting thing to try to avoid Patrick Jane.

It was a heartbreaking thing to do so, no matter how angry she felt.

It was only at day's end that they met again, and she'd made sure in no uncertain terms that she was unhappy and mad as hell. Luckily, his vaunted powers of perception clued him in, and he stood behind her and off to the side when they left the office. When they got to her car, instead of his customary chivalry and quick discussion of where they'd meet that evening, she had opened her door herself, looked straight ahead and icily informed him that she'd see him at work the next day.

Then she slammed the door, before driving off.

* * *

Earlier the night before

But thank god, she'd had some time to think. And after a few hours' fuming in silence, she found herself reaching for the box of letters he'd sent from the island. But she stopped herself before indulging in them. Was being alone like this, like she'd been most of her life, really the way to solve their differences? Would she treat a friend the same way?

Guilt took over.

Of course, she knew why he was "protecting" her. She'd taken him to the house in Malibu when he'd been in the fugue state. She'd seen his reaction. And she'd seen a dozen years of a grieving Patrick Jane. She knew exactly what he feared.

Yet, this was not an insurmountable problem. She would not let it beat them.

Teresa grabbed a jacket and reached for her keys, which now included a key to the Silver Bucket. A few months ago, she never would have thought she'd be spending so much time in that contraption, let alone practically living there. A short drive later, she let herself in, and noticed that a light had been left on in the bathroom. She hesitated as she saw his pajama-clad body sprawled on the bed; this was their first substantive fight as a committed couple, after all. But she knew she had to set the tone and let him know that he was not in this all alone, that she understood.

That part of being together was to share not only the highs but the lows.

But before she could set her things down, she heard his "C'mere."

Of course, he was awake.

His voice broke the silence in that low tone he reserved only for her, and only used in their most private moments. He scooted over, making room for her.

"Teresa," he said, beckoning her to him once more, hand patting the sheet next to him.

She didn't think she could get over there fast enough. She didn't care that she looked needy or overeager; she only wanted to feel his body pressed to her. She wanted to start the healing.

But she restrained herself. Flinging off her jacket, clad in yoga pants and a t-shirt, she slowly lay down next to him, and remained there in silence for a few beats, matching the beat of her breath with his.

"About what happened..." she then began.

It didn't feel right, just laying side by side like wooden statues, so she reached over, and ran her hand up and down the length of his arm, lightly, just barely scratching. It was something he really liked.

"Shh," he replied, stopping her hand and pressing it to his lips. "You were right to be angry." His hand then moved in figure eights through her hair. He drew a handful of hair through his fingers like a precious silken skein. Reaching the end, his hand moved to another section of her head, and repeated the motion.

She rolled onto her side, looking at him, one hand tracing circles on his arm. Her circles were slow and tightly constructed, fingers moving round and round on his hand. She traced over his ring.

She thought he didn't notice her slight hesitation, but he did. Out of habit, he moved to cover his hand, to hide it, but she wouldn't let him.

"I know you will let them go when it feels right," she told him, as she continued tracing over the ring.

"I'm so scared, Teresa..." he replied.

"I know."

"I can't have two of these," he gestured to his ring. "Can't go through this again." His voice was less than a whisper, as he stared at the ceiling.

Hearing this, Teresa gently tipped his chin toward him so he had to look at her. "You're right, we will work through it."

And he was right, she thought. Because they both knew what was at stake. They both knew what it was like to be without the other.

"Help me, Teresa," he whispered. "I'm so scared..."

Understanding flooded her heart. She remembered his words on the plane: "Letting people get close to me is terrifying, for obvious reasons I can't imagine waking up knowing that I won't see you." She remembered all the times he had said he was scared...

Suddenly, she couldn't wait to show him that she would do anything to make him feel safe and loved, less scared. That he didn't need to live the rest of their lives in fear.

So she was extremely tender and gentle with him; she had a feeling that he could not believe that she was there after their fight. Before long, both were panting. She could feel his attempt at a smile against each place that her mouth pressed kisses. By the time her hand made its way up his side and back, both were urgently moving their hips, and Patrick could no longer hold back the moan her name turned into.

His eyes, heavy-lidded, were almost closed as his head lolled back onto the pillows. She pulled down his pajama bottoms, and planted her knees firmly on either side of his hips. She was ready to lower herself onto him, when he suddenly grabbed her hips and stopped her.

"I love you," he told her. "You mean everything."

He then smiled the smile of a condemned soul returned to life, and sank back into the pillows even as she sank onto him. Tears filled her eyes, just seeing the desire, love, and gratitude in his. At that moment, there was nothing she would not do, would not be, for him. She now understood exactly what people meant when they said no one ever expressed regret at spending more time at work when on their deathbed.

She was not going to be that person. He was not going to be that person. She would make sure they would have it all.

Languorously, she moved in figure eights; her hands entwined with his, supporting her. Her movement was steady and rhythmic; all she could focus on was how so very good they were together. Her body moved effortlessly over his, rising and falling, circling one way then the other.

And then his hands crept up her forearms, as he again hoarsely asked her to stop. He gently lifted her and deftly flipped her over.

"Patrick?" she asked.

In response, he rubbed his stubbled cheek up and down her back, and over her buttocks.

"Patrick...please..." she begged him to continue where they'd left off. She wanted them to apologize to each other all night long.

Raising his head, Patrick obliged, firmly holding onto her hips. Slipping back inside, he lifted her slightly to him and began moving in and out of her. Teresa's reaction was immediate; she held onto the pillows in front of her, clutching them to herself, biting into them. She moaned his name as he stiffened and clasped her even tighter against himself. He finally gasped out her name once, then twice, before collapsing onto his side and taking her with him.

For a while, they lay in each other's arms, legs entwined, each softly kissing whatever lips could reach. Teresa's hand made its way to his chest, slipping inside his pajama top, and stroking him softly.

"Teresa?"

"Hmmm?"

"Would you ever want a family, Teresa?" he asked.

"I..." she stammered, and then remembering how he was with her brother's family, with Baby Paul, she answered, unequivocally, "Yes."

"Do you mean it? About a family. About kids."

"Yes."

"Sure you don't want to...mull...it over?" Patrick replied. "It would mean things for your job, your career."

"We'll work it out together," she reassured him.

She felt his smile against her neck.

Then post-coital exhaustion took its toll.

* * *

It wasn't morning yet, but Teresa was pretty sure they'd both said they were sorry. Noticing that she was naked and chilly, she tugged the comforter up a fraction. As she tugged it closer, up to her other arm, which was protectively slung across Patrick's chest, she rested her hand over his heart. Pressing herself closer, she nestled contentedly into Patrick's side.


End file.
